


In which John can no longer wait for the unsaid to be heard

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Series: In which..... [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, s4 never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 08:21:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14667114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: All he could think of was that the man he had loved for so long and then mourned for so much longer, was now, by some terrible but miraculous deception, actually NOT DEAD.





	In which John can no longer wait for the unsaid to be heard

**Author's Note:**

> Johnlock is so lovely (but only if one blocks out Season 4 which is what I had to do.)

Two years after being ‘dead’, he had returned, with a dramatic but ill- timed flourish and a misguided joke which earned him a fist to his face.

John took a taxi and left, still trembling, with rage and adrenaline.

 

_‘I like him’_ , Mary said.

John was so startled when she spoke he almost jumped. He had completely forgotten she was in the taxi with him.

All he could think of was that the man he had loved for so long and then mourned for so much longer, was now, by some terrible but miraculous deception, actually NOT DEAD.

.

.

.

So, what in the HELL was he doing in a taxi going AWAY from him?!

As soon as that thought registered in his brain, his decision was made.

_“Sorry Mary’_ , he said, ‘ _I have to go back to him’_.

He asked the driver to stop the taxi, gave him some cash and asked him to take the lady home. He stepped on the pavement, looked around for a taxi or a tube station and saw that he was probably walking distance from Baker Street. A long walk, but he needed that time to still cool off.

******************************************************************

Half an hour later, he was standing outside 221B Baker Street, hands in his pockets, knuckles bruised and red, hesitating, breath coming fast and hungry. He was about to knock when he remembered that he still had the key on a chain around his neck. He opened the door, went in and closed it behind him quietly.

Deep breath.

One step at a time.

This was the first time he was climbing up the stairs since that day.

He had been unable to face the reality of the house without Sherlock in it.

If he did not have to look at the empty chair and the silent violin and the clean fridge, then maybe some part of his brain could carry on the pretence that he was still alive but somewhere else.

His legs were trembling now, from fatigue, from the wearing off of the adrenaline, from a new un-named fear mixed with high jolts of anticipation.

Slowly, deliberately, one stair at a time. Avoid the creaky step, turn the handle and open the door. Another deep breath. Step in.

Sherlock was standing by the window so he must have seen him enter the building, but he did not turn around. John knew it was probably to save him the sight of what his fist had done to his face and his heart gave a sharp twist.

He removed his coat and walked to the kitchen.

*****************************************

_‘Cup of tea?_ ’’ he asked, as though he was just continuing a conversation from a few minutes ago.

As though it was a regular weekday on this planet and he had just gotten up from his chair while Sherlock was continuing his experiments. As though he had just put down a book he had been reading and moved from the role of silent companion to caretaker.

As though he had not instead clambered up from a deep and very dark void , from across 104 visits to a gravestone asking for one last miracle. As though he was not actually weary to his very core from the effort of living in his cage of flesh and bone when the heart had been ripped out of it.

As though every fibre of his being was not screaming in rage while his blood sang with the joy of a chorus of angels.

As though it was just a cup of tea being made by one flatmate for another.

******************************************

Sherlock came and sat down quietly at the table in front of the cup without looking at John’s face or indeed even in his direction. John made two toasts, with a generous slathering of butter and honey and kept the plate halfway between him and Sherlock, looking only at the table the entire time.

Some dust motes swirled lazily in the beam of yellow light. A car horn sounded, impatient, annoyed, somewhere down the street. Maybe somewhere, faintly, round the corner, a dog barked.

Time was moving at a regular pace outside 221B while on the inside it had congealed.

Thick like a clot of blood. Slow like the pouring of treacle. Hot like the rolling out of lava.

A drop of amber was falling down ever so languidly, oozing out of the bark……..and it was going to trap them in for an eternity.

Then Sherlock moved his hand slowly towards the plate and took a toast. Finally John had the courage to look towards him, just from the corner of his eye, and noticed that his hand was trembling.

That tremor did him in.

He was so overwhelmed by his love for this man, this insane, painful, complicated, wonderful, amazing man. Sherlock. His Sherlock. Always.

He had broken his heart with his lies and being dead.

But he was his Sherlock. Alive. Here. Now.

Before he knew it, he was standing next to Sherlock, reaching out and wiping some crumbs from his lips.

He took Sherlock’s trembling hand in his own and said _—‘It’s all going to be ok, my love.’_

Sherlock froze. His long fingers cold and still in Johns warm palm.

John’s heart sank and his stomach flipped over.

Time stopped.

**************************************************

_What had he done?! Was this too much too soon? Was he going to be left alone……again?_

He could feel the blood rushing out of his brain leaving him paralyzed with terror.

‘ _What did you call me??_ ’ asked Sherlock, in a voice thick with such emotions that John could not understand. Was he angry? Incredulous? Worried? Sad?

But also in that split second John remembered that he was a soldier. And a doctor. He needed to be brave and march forward if he wanted to save lives. Their lives. Together. Always. He needed to be brave enough for them both.

So, he took a deep breath, moved his hand away, looked at his beloved flatmate and best friend in the eye and said:

“ _My love._

_I have been calling you that since the day we met. Maybe not in words._

_I killed a man because no one can be allowed to harm you (my love)._

_Please eat something (my love)._

_Please sleep for a few hours at least (my love)._

_Do you need me to come along (my love)?_

_Even my dating was meant to keep you from having to face what I felt for you and what you did not feel for me. Have a good evening (my love)._

_Please don’t be dead (my love)._

_._

_._

_I was just waiting for you to hear it. But now I don’t want to wait any more._

_I am still angry with you for your deception and for not realizing that you almost killed me by trying to save my life._

_But I let you go once without saying it out loud to you. I will not let it happen again._

_This does not mean that I expect you to say anything back to me or that it changes anything in any way._

_I just want you to, no I NEED you to know how much you are loved and …….”_

 

Before he could continue, his lips were being kissed, his face being held by beautiful long fingers and his breath being taken away.

The man who lived was kissing the man who loved.

 

And just like that, time started again and all would indeed be ok in 221 B Baker Street.


End file.
